


my turn with the remote

by UnfortunatelyObsessed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dr. Sexy - Freeform, It's sweet, M/M, changing channels, debriel, it's also smut ngl, little bit angsty but c'mon this is me we're talking about, well it WAS pwp but my brain just HAD to go and add a bit of plot in there huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29208711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnfortunatelyObsessed/pseuds/UnfortunatelyObsessed
Summary: Dean looked down, trying to find some inspiration.Aaaaaaand that’s when it happened. It was quick, Gabe would give him that. One moment he was toying with the idea of putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder just to watch him go jelly-legged, the next he was back-to-brick with the wall.“You’re not Doctor Sexy,” Dean growled, arm across his chest.
Relationships: Gabriel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	my turn with the remote

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArthursKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArthursKnight/gifts).



> arthursknight's bday is today and my bday is in three more days so happy birthday to us  
> Gabriel as Doctor Sexy was heavily underutilized and now I make the rules

Gabriel adjusted his lab coat in the mirror, admiring his disguise. It was perfect, aside from the sneakers. But where was the fun in playing if there was no chance of getting caught?

Every new reality— new channel, _whatever_ — that he booped them to, there was always something. Some little detail that, if the conjoined hunters were smart enough, would give him away.

That’s the exciting part, the one Gabriel _craved._ That little look in their eyes, the flashes of recognition, and then it was on to the next show, next reality, next commercial. Until he broke them.

He was content to stay in this TV Land for as long as it took. Actually, the longer… the better.

There was a knock at the door. “Doctor!” a voice called out. “The new doctors are here!”

Gabriel smirked at himself in the mirror, all tall and broad-shouldered and dark-haired. “Showtime.”

———

He could see them down the hall. He could, also, pinpoint the _exact_ moment that Dean saw him.

Damn. He knew this guy was _into_ the show. He didn’t realize just how _much,_ though.

He was sorely, sorely tempted to step closer, just to see if Dean would go ahead and pass out or not. His bets were on yes.

“Doctor,” he said, in that fake voice he could see brought a blush to Dean’s face.

“Doctor,” Dean responded, head down.

“Doctor,” he addressed Sam, face betraying nothing.

Sam didn’t say anything, just looked bewildered until Dean not-very-discreetly punched him and he responded, “Doctor.”

Alright. So Sam wasn’t into it. He could work with that.

He turned to Dean and asked, levelly, “You wanna give me one good reason why you defied my direct order to do the experimental face transplant on Mrs. Beale?”

Dean was speechless, cornered, and _fuck_ was that satisfying to watch. “O-one reason?”

“Mm.”

“Sure…” Dean looked down, trying to find some inspiration.

Aaaaaaand that’s when it happened. It was quick, Gabe would give him that. One moment he was toying with the idea of putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder just to watch him go jelly-legged, the next he was back-to-brick with the wall.

“You’re not Doctor Sexy,” Dean growled, arm across his chest.

“You’re crazy,” Gabe responded smoothly.

“Really? Because I _swore_ part of what makes Dr. Sexy sexy is the fact that he wears cowboy boots. Not _tennis shoes.”_

There were a few ways out of this, sure. He could just applaud them on getting it right so fast. But…

That little blush still trailing off of Dean’s cheeks… held _promises._

“You idiot,” Gabe said, one hand coming up to grab the arm across his chest. “I told you to stay home and _rest.”_

Dean’s eyes slid off to the side, confused, before looking back to him. “We know what you are,” he tried.

“Dean,” Gabe said low, in a way that made Dean’s head tilt a bit, “you hit your head last night, remember? You slipped on the ice outside and passed out. You’re lucky I was there.”

Dean looked down at the tennis shoes again, then back up. “The boots,” he reasserted lamely.

 _“You’re wearing them,”_ Gabe said, enunciating each word. “Your shoes tore on a bolt sticking out of the metal benches outside. So I gave you my boots to get home in.”

Dean’s arm against his chest loosened some, and Gabriel reached up and brushed some of his hair back.

“I need to look at your injury closer, I think. It seemed fine last night but… you appear worse.”

Dean looked at his own shoes— _boots,_ yep, sure were— and back up to Gabe’s eyes. “I. I guess I just— I got confused.”

“Come to my office. I need to make sure nothing serious is going on.” Dean’s arm slid entirely off his chest, and he motioned for him to follow down the corridor.

Sam began to follow, too, but Gabriel turned to him and said, “They need you in surgery, doctor.”

Sam exchanged a _terrified_ glance with Dean, who shrugged.

“I… can’t,” Sam tried.

“You can,” Gabriel promised absently, walking further down the corridor, Dean having no choice but to follow.

He could _feel_ Sam mouth, _What do I do?!_ to Dean, who responded with, _Just play your part._

Oh, good.

They were figuring it out.

Gabriel closed the door behind Dean, and they were in an office overlooking the entire city.

“Sit,” Gabriel commanded, motioning to his desk instead of either of the guest chairs.

Dean didn’t know how to argue — _good,_ Gabe thought again — and sat on the desk obediently.

Gabriel made a big show about trying to get a good angle to look at the bruise on Dean’s head, before pushing between his legs to stand directly before him, almost chest to chest.

He could feel Dean’s legs shaking against him.

“I won’t hurt you,” Gabe mumbled as he examined the knot on Dean’s skull. “Does it still hurt?”

Dean swallowed harshly, even though Gabriel _knew_ his mouth was dry. “A-a little.”

“You took quite a tumble.”

“Yeah…” Dean looked off to the side, like looking directly at Gabriel was difficult.

And, hey. It probably was.

“I need you to focus on my eyes. To make sure you didn’t sustain any brain injuries.”

Dean hesitantly met his eyes, and holy snowballs, this human could probably see someone’s _soul_ if he tried. With eyes like that…

Dean glanced down to his lips, and oh, Gabriel had him.

“We should test motor function,” he whispered, face inches from Dean’s.

“Yeah?” Dean wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t if he tried.

“Yeah,” Gabe confirmed, hand sliding to the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him in.

And if it was this easy to draw a moan out of _every_ human, then Gabriel had _certainly_ been doing things the hard way.

Dean was… _pliant._ Putty. Gave way to each and every movement Gabriel took. Like tides or a water bed or something else that Gabe didn’t have the presence of mind to name.

 _Gabriel_ did not encourage him to wrap his legs so tight around him that he couldn’t back away. That was all _Dean’s_ doing. But Gabriel _did_ part his lips against Dean’s, and Dean copied, and suddenly their tongues had free reign.

And— fuck, okay, free reign really _meant_ free reign because Dean’s tongue was dragging across his stubble and Dean’s teeth were biting at his jaw and Dean’s lips were sucking at his throat and—

Gabe opened his eyes to a photo on the wall that… hadn’t been there before? It was him and Dean. Fishing, maybe. It was hard to tell. It was just them.

But then Dean’s hands were pushing his coat off and Gabriel _could not care less_ about whatever dumb photos decided to populate the room, because he was pushing Dean’s coat off, too, and pressing forward to sweep every stray document off the desk.

Dean fell back, hands pulling until Gabriel was there with him, kissing his mouth and neck and— well, his chest, after he managed to wrangle those stupid scrubs off.

The chairs were different now. Green. Gabe didn’t think Dean would notice.

Dean was pushing his scrubs off, too, and Gabe had to help him so they could both be bare from the waist up, and Dean’s hands grasped against Gabe’s shoulder blades until Gabriel was biting at the junction of neck and shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, soft noises escaping his throat.

Dean’s hands went to exploring, trying to find _every_ spot that could draw out moans and gasps from the lips that were currently making a very determined beeline farther down.

Gabriel pushed off pants and boxers — Scooby Doo boxers? Black boxers with the Mystery Machine all over them, and when Gabriel’s hands pushed them off, too, there was a ring on his left hand.

Well, that was unusual.

He bit at thigh and hipbone and pec, coming up to press dizzying and fierce kisses to Dean’s mouth, to grab Dean’s hands and press them against the table above him.

Dean’s hands, with a goddamn matching ring.

It was stupid, it was really fucking stupid, but then Dean was rolling his hips up against him, and Gabriel forgot about the rings and the chairs and the fact that there were now _two_ nameplates shoved off the desk instead of one in favor of returning the gesture.

Dean’s tongue slid against his in much the same way that Dean’s heel slid against his ass as he used his boot-less feet to push off the remaining clothes Gabe was wearing, and alright, the boy was talented, sure.

Gabe kicked them off the rest of the way and there they were, naked on a desk overlooking the city.

Did Gabe make these windows one-way? Probably. It really didn’t matter; the city didn’t exist anyway, but Dean sure did, and so did the way he pushed Gabriel over until _he_ was on top, grinning down with such pure _intention_ that it sent about five more photos to the walls.

When Dean’s mouth trailed hickeys and kisses and nibbles down Gabriel’s body, Gabe had a clear view of the fucking _collage_ the walls had become, and when those sin-inducing lips did what was _apparently_ their job, he firmly ignored as the photos grew from him and Dean enjoying life to him and Dean raising a family.

There was a car poster on the wall that hadn’t been there, and maybe this was getting out of hand but then Dean was _using_ his hands and honestly? The car poster didn’t look that bad.

His chest was heaving and he had one hand in Dean’s hair and one grasping the edge of the desk, and there was just _no way_ Dean hadn’t done this before, and he was wondering how many different realities could lead to this conclusion and how _eager_ he was to find out when there was something pressed to his stomach and—

Ah, fuck.

Dean was grinning at him again, lips all spit-slick and red and _fuck_ that was an anniversary photo, just off behind where Dean was holding a wooden stake of some sort against Gabe’s stomach. “Hey,” he said, voice gravelly, and _mmmmm_ mark Gabe down as not-scared but really horny.

“Hey,” Gabe responded, trying to look like he didn’t want to be close to the stake when for all he cared Dean could go ahead and fuck him with it.

Okay well, not really, but you get the idea.

Dean pressed the tip harder against Gabe’s stomach, drawing a single bead of blood and alright, yeah, maybe he was a _little_ into this whole… _badass_ routine. “Mind taking off that disguise?”

“And ruin the moment?” Gabe thrust his hips up, bouncing Dean against him so he got the idea. “How about _after_ I press you up against those windows and scar any innocent bystanders?”

Dean shrugged like it meant nothing to him, straddling Gabriel at a better angle. “They’re not real. Nothing else here but you is real.”

Gabe tilted his head to the side, studying Dean and the way his hair fell and the soft freckles that peppered his face and he could kiss every one if given the time and—

A dog barked at the door and there was a scratching noise, and Dean jumped. Hard. He whipped around to look at the door, and Gabe didn’t even bother to move. “What was that?” Dean asked, panic lacing his voice.

“A dog, I think.”

“No shit Sherlock,” Dean grumbled, turning back around. He paled as he looked out the window. “What the fuck.”

Gabe craned his neck up to look outside, and they were level with the ground now, overlooking some big backyard with mowed grass and a treeline at the far edge. “Honey I’m home?” Gabe tried.

Dean pressed the stake against his skin harder. “Stop with your damn tricks,” he hissed.

“Trickster,” Gabe deadpanned. “And this isn’t me. Well… it’s sort of me. But it’s your fault so…”

“My fault? How is it _my_ fault that we’re in somebody’s house?!”

Gabe pointed to the wall. “Our house, actually. It was a subconscious thing.”

Dean stared at the layout of a life he never had. “Um.”

“Yeah. Anyway.” He wiggled his hips. “We gonna finish up here or…?”

“You’re a _trickster,”_ Dean accused. “I kind of have to kill you.”

“Sure, sure. And you can. Later.” He ran his hands over Dean’s thighs, and Dean tightened his grip on the stake. “Easy, easy,” Gabe crooned. “You knew it was me the whole time. So how about we just pretend this bit never happened, and get back to what we were doing? I was enjoying it. You certainly seemed like _you_ were enjoying it. So. Win-win.”

“I just—“

“Had a fantasy you wanted to play out with your favorite show character. I get it. But—“ Gabe flipped them, and they were back in the office overlooking the city, with the green chairs and the pictures on the walls and the shitty crayon drawings their kids had made for them, “is it _really_ a completed fantasy if _Doctor Sexy_ doesn’t return the favor?” He winked. “You can even keep the stake at my throat. Kind of turns me on.”

Dean eyed him warily. “And you’re not gonna kill me the moment I’m distracted?”

“Dean, baby, you’ve been distracted since you _got here._ If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it already.” Gabriel climbed off of him and the desk, stretching, letting Dean get a good look at everything he would be missing out on.

And judging by the way Dean sat the stake aside, it was a lot.

“Cool,” was all Gabe said before he had Dean pressed up against the window, biting at his lips and picking him up by his thighs, relishing the desperate grasp of Dean’s hands.

His mouth left bruising kisses down Dean’s neck, as Dean tried and failed to ask, “Wh-what’s your— _mmph_ what’s your n-n-name?”

And there were a few different options here, but Gabriel pulled back to grin and say, “They call me _Loki.”_

Dean’s eyes widened in realization as Gabriel dropped Dean’s legs, dropped to the ground, dropped his jaw and picked up something else entirely.

And it seemed every hitched and thrown-out noise Dean made put a new picture on the wall, something about life, something about a world where this could happen in a way that wasn’t a desperate mashing of two people in the only pocket of time that existed for them.

Dean’s hands tried to grasp at window, but that didn’t work so they grasped at Gabriel’s hair and judging by the groan Gabe liked that, so he grasped at Gabriel’s hair harder, rewarded with a hand clutching at his thigh so thoroughly that he was going to have a Loki-shaped bruise there.

And then Gabriel was biting and sucking back up his body, up to his lips, and the thought _not_ to kiss him didn’t even cross Dean’s mind.

With a firm twist Dean was facing the window, one hand against his back, holding him there.

“Wanna know a cool thing about being a trickster god?” Gabriel asked nonchalantly.

“Is it the babes?”

“I mean— obviously, yes, but more along the lines of—“ There was a spell Gabriel had learned eons ago that he used now, a simple press of fingers to tailbone, a trickling of magic that had Dean’s fingers scrabbling uselessly against glass, had his lips parted, had pants and moans falling freely from them. “Easy setup,” Gabe quipped playfully, holding Dean’s hands to the pane above his head, pressing hips to ass.

He paused a moment, with Dean’s chest heaving and body shining with a thin sheen of sweat. He pressed his lips against Dean’s ear, whispered low, quiet, even, “I could kill you right now.”

Dean barely breathed out “fuck,” forehead pressed to cool glass, on display for the absolutely no one outside.

“It wouldn’t even be hard,” Gabriel continued quietly, seriously. He transferred Dean’s wrists to one hand, using the other to press between skin and glass, to feel the heat that so entirely radiated from Dean. “There’s nothing you could do.”

Dean waited, barely breathing, entire being focused down to a pinpoint, to every square millimeter where Gabriel pressed against him.

“But I won’t,” Gabe promised, and somehow that didn’t make Dean feel any better. “Just know, that from now on, every moment of life you have is because _I_ let you have it.” He pushed in easily, and it didn’t even hurt, and Dean sort of almost wished it did.

He pressed parted lips to glass, then to the side, to stare at the photos lining the walls, and suddenly… he got it. He got the thinly-veiled threat, the photos, the chairs, the house the dog the two-point-five kids…

“Yeah?” Dean managed around the gasps his body was desperately taking. “Then the same goes for you, you know I c-could, I could’ve killed you, t-too.”

“But you didn’t,” Gabe said, voice wavering, and yeah, Dean was right.

“And neither did you.”

Gabriel released his hands to grab his hips, to angle himself to better draw curses and moans and pleas out of those lips from a future that couldn’t exist.

And Dean closed his eyes against photos and drawings and nameplates that fell from the walls, because they were killers and hunters and monsters, and, for now, for just _right fucking now,_ they had to prove they could show mercy.

Because they might not get to again.

So Dean was pressed against the window, over the desk, in the chair, on the floor, whatever, wherever, until he turned and pushed Gabriel down, too, until they had both lost score, until freckles and parted lips and drawn brows were burned into Gabriel’s retinas, until the doctor disguise was long since cast away, and Dean was holding gold and amber and sun.

They breathed hard, exhausted, sprawled out on the carpet that Gabriel had put there in the beginning, with blank walls and tan chairs and a single nameplate that read _Doctor Sexy, MD._

Their bodies were littered with bruises that neither really cared about.

Gabriel shut his eyes and focused on his breath, and not the feeling of Dean next to him. “Well. Good game.”

“Same to you.”

He motioned half-heartedly to the desk. “If you wanted to kill me still, now would be the time. I’m— I’m fucking exhausted.”

Dean stared at the desk for a while, for too long, before he asked, softly, “Could we go back to that house?”

“Mmm.” Gabe snapped his fingers and there they were, in a future that didn’t exist, in a a bed that would never hold their sleeping forms. He opened his eyes in confusion when he felt a gentle kiss pressed against his lips.

“How bad would it fuck things over if we stayed here?” Dean asked quietly.

“Pretty bad,” Gabriel responded, lips still tingling. There was that dog again.

“Damn.” Dean looked Gabriel over, as if memorizing him. “Find me in the next life.”

And that was too soft, that was _way_ too fucking soft, and Gabriel was not _allowed_ to feel his heart like this. “There won’t be one.”

“Then find me in the afterlife.”

“…sure.”

Dean held out his pinky. “I mean it. Promise me you’ll find me again.”

Gabriel linked their pinkies together, and suddenly Dean was in a different TV show, in a different plane of reality, wearing real clothes and looking wild-eyed at Sam as Gabriel sighed in an empty bed and whispered, “Yeah. Sure. I promise.”


End file.
